


The Deal

by Jolly Camaleonte (ginnyx)



Category: Metallica
Genre: AJFA era, HTSD era, Internalized Homophobia, James & Lars dynamic, M/F implied, M/M, NO BASHING THE LADIES!, Smut, bc every chapter is set on the day of a wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyx/pseuds/Jolly%20Camaleonte
Summary: Four weddings.Thirty-something years.One deal:If we are willing and feeling like it, we fuck.(James and Lars, through the circumstances.)
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a journey into James' mind. There's gonna be a touch of internalzed homophobia, swearing and danish; every chapter will be set during a wedding day (3 for Lars and 1 for James).  
> EDIT: thank you so much, inkk, for the Danish first aid! Now Lars' bilingual ass is accurate.

The deal: if we are willing and feeling it, we fuck.

That’s it. That’s the deal they made, back in the summer of ’85.

Easy to get, easy to remember and no other rules apply _(except the silent ones –no one must know, no other men, you tell me when—_ _)_ because, as they always said, no rules but Metallica rules.

Again, **_easy_**.

At least, that’s what James thought, in the beginning.

˜

**Lars’ wedding, afterparty at his house, 1988**

He finds you.

This is after the ceremony. This is after the food, the party, the drinks.

He is giddy, smiling, with a little flair in his step.

It’s not the alcohol, this is just him high on the energy of the day.

God, you know he can still go on for hours when he is like this.

He falls unto an empty chair next to yours –they are all empty, you made sure of that— and looks at you.

You ignore him, _on purpose_ , nursing your beer.

(In a fucking champagne flute, but still a beer.)

He bumps your shoulders together, _on purpose_.

You simply let your body swing away then back at him, reciprocating the bump, _on purpose_.

And that’s what you two do, for half a minute: swaying in your chair, like those metal balls in every Physics class ever, unrelenting motion in rhythm –till you start to go faster and faster _and faster_ and Lars’ laugh gets incontrollable.

He tries to stop you with all his weight –arms awkwardly tied around your elbows, face pressed on your shoulder.

You rock even more, madly, feeling his grip and his voice getting tighter and tighter and—

And all the noisy chatter falls out of the background, into nothingness.

_And you find yourself finally here._

_In the moment._

_With him._

You slow down gently, gradually, until you stop completely, just feeling the hug going soft.

You let him adjust his cheek on your shoulder, getting comfy, and you surrender.

_(Just a bit.)_

You steal a glance at him, briefly, with the corner of your eye, suppressing a little smile.

But he is not looking at you.

His mouth is finally shut, his teeth are covered, and he is looking straight ahead, quiet.

_Like he doesn’t feel your gaze._

You follow his eyes, but you can’t, really: he is not watching something.

He is not watching the dancefloor, where is new wife is; he is not even generally taking the party in.

_Like he is not here, with you._

You are sure, you are so fucking sure about what he is doing.

He is doing his ‘ _futurist thing’_ : trying to see the horizon before everyone else does, trying to see the future.

And it makes you so fucking pissed, so goddamn—

**(Abandoned.)**

No.

**(Alone.)**

No, that’s not it.

**(Alone.)**

It’s not like that, it’s not—

**(Alone.)**

You know alone, you like alone, you—

 **_(So goddamn afraid to be—_ ** **_)_ **

“Hey.”

It comes out of you raspy, too fast— but it gets you what you want.

_Lars’ eyes on yours._

“Want your wedding present?”

He frowns, blinking rapidly.

“I thought we unwrapped all the gifts.”

He shifts slightly to look at the gifts table, searching, but not leaving your shoulder.

“Another one.”

His eyes are back on yours, hunting for clues.

“Just for you.”

Oh, and _at that_ you see him change, go pliant, completely focused on you.

That’s it, that’s the Lars you know.

_(still the same whiny, only child that begs and glows when someone even remotely implies that he is special)_

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

You still getting static from him, from his eyes.

“Wanna see it?”

But you are going to fix it.

“Fuck yeah I wanna! Where is it?”

˜

“Did you hide it here before the wedding? Without me noticing?”

Lars keeps leaping from one corner of his studio to the other, smiling.

He opens a random drawer of his desk, then he stops and turns towards you.

“You asked Debbie to help.”

He sounds so _happy_.

“You are not gonna find it.”

“Am I not?”, he counters, cheeky, but he doesn’t even leave you a little window to reply, that he’s stalking through the room towards you.

“Because you’ve got it on you!” he begins to pawn you all over, wiggling his eyebrows.

You laugh and you fend him off.

“All right, all right! Hold it, cowboy.”

You keep him at arm length, his shoulders bouncing under your fingers.

“Oh, c’m _on_. I’m dying here! Also, we kinda have to go back out there, man.”

_Fuck. Of course his mind is still not here._

“Is it some embarrassing shit?”

_But you already knew that, you are going to fix that._

“Sex-related embarrassing shit? Wait, is it for my wedding ni—”

_You know what to do._

“Dude, why are you closing the door?”

With the lock still beneath your thumb, you turn to face him.

“Guess,” you say vague, building up your inscrutable leader persona.

“I’ve been doing that for five fucking minutes,” he replies, not impressed.

(More like thirty seconds, but Lars does love hyperboles.)

You keep the game up –the cool, in control vibe— stepping right in front of him.

You look, just look, down at him with full force.

This is the gaze that keeps people on their toes.

This is the gaze that does not let anything out.

_Unreadable and dangerous._

Makes people fuck off.

Makes Lars look harder.

“Get on the couch.”

He does not move until your hands are on him, squeezing tour-toned biceps.

One step forward for you, one backward for him.

_Not a conventional dancefloor, but still a dancefloor._

_(Still in perfect rhythm.)_

His eyes never leave yours –looking, looking, searching for something, anything.

He doesn’t know when to give up, and that’s why it’s so _easy_.

Easy to take him to the nice new couch, easy to push him down on it.

Your hand travels the road of his neck, the bow of his jaw, just to sit a thumb on his chin.

His eyes are still on yours.

_How they can be simultaneously below and on the same level as yours?_

_How does he—_

“You were right.”

That makes them flicker.

_(who is a sucker for whatever scrap of validation is available and does speak Danish?)_

“Your present is **_on_** me.”

You grin and the tension suddenly crushes on the walls.

He giggles and slaps your tight sloppily.

“Fuck you, James”, his head drops against your hip and then it lifts up, “but raincheck, ok?”

Only then you realize that you already had your fingers in his hair.

_You don’t even remember moving them._

“I’ll collect my… ‘gift’ later on, all right?”

_So you don’t._

“James?”

_You keep them right there…_

“I kinda want to get up right now.”

**_And then fall onto your knees._ **

“You sure about that?”

˜

When he speaks again, you’ve already unbuttoned his trousers and your fingertips are grazing his navel –his shirt has been untucked for hours now, it had resisted just until the wedding photoshoot was over.

“What are you doing?”

His hands are on the couch, clenched.

_He is nervous._

You point your eyes right into his, and then just cock an eyebrow.

You like watching his face while he feels your touch traveling down.

Black suit, black underwear.

You trace it, trace the outline of what it hides –and not really that well.

_Lars has already a semi._

_And you still haven’t done anything._

“James, seriously, what—”

You suddenly tighten your grip, letting him feel the pressure, and then you pull –slowly, idly.

He grits his teeth, his arms spasm, but he stays silent.

(Nobody would believe it, but during sex Lars goes completely silent, the most silent fuck you’ve ever had.)

_(And don’t you enjoy the challenge, trying and pulling even just a broken grasp out of him.)_

You grip his pants on both sides and wait.

But he doesn’t move –his head just falls down on the couch’s backrest.

“Up.”

_Nothing._

You make him feel your nails.

“Waist u—”

“Please, don’t.”

That hurts.

That _tone_ hurts.

_(and you get so fucking angry when you hurt.)_

“Don’t what.”

You see his chin lolling left and right, his shoulders shrugging a bit.

“I’m just saying that I don’t know if I… I mean, you… jerking me off righ—"

“Who said jerk off?”

That makes him lol his head to the side.

He shoots you a look, chary.

“What’s all of this, the door, the ‘secret gift’, the kneeling, if not—”

“I’m not that cheap.”

And again, you tug his pants, but he doesn’t budge.

The stubborn bastard.

You make a big production of scoffing and being irritated, like he is the dumb one.

“I’m not that cheap to gift you a goddamn, lame handjob for your wedding.”

“Oh well, _of course_ you aren’t, so what are you offering _instead_?”

And now you have him: with his arms crossed, his sarcasm, high and mighty with is zip open the day of his wedding for someone who is certainly not his spouse.

You let your gaze go down him, slow and easy, then back up at his eyes, serene.

Full in control.

“A blowjob.”

_That’s the moment._

His eyes dilatate, his arms tighten, his mouth slacks a little with all the possibilities overflowing that brainy brain of his.

Oh, because he _knows_.

This is not _a_ blowjob.

_This is your first, your only._

_Just for him, here, at his feet._

Your grip is still on the waistband and you ask, for the last time,

“Waist up.”

˜

You know what you are doing. You may have never done it before, but you know what to do.

Hands and lips, easy and no rush.

Also, you know what _not_ to do.

Meaning, yeah, you where there for Lars’ first time.

_(You remember him almost gagging on your dick, his eyes wet, the panic in his voice and hands.)_

So you just tilt your head and lick his cock, slowly, feeling your tongue dragging along the skin, breathing in the smell.

_You know the smell._

You close your eyes for a second and your shoulders gradually go down.

Yeah, it’s good.

_(It’s Lars.)_

You open your eyes again and scoot closer, taking one of his tights and putting it over your shoulder, to get some traction.

You hear his hands on the couch, adjusting, balancing, following your lead.

_(You don’t watch him. You are calm. You are in control.)_

Now you have more access to his balls, and you get the game going.

You lick long stripes, you tease; you graze his balls with your fingertips –ghost touch alternated with brief pressure.

He doesn’t utter a word, his pants are almost inaudible, except you feel his thigh’s muscles clenching against your neck, his foot spasming against your back, kicking nothing –powerless.

But you want more.

You want your name in his mouth, spitted out again and again, knifing the silence of the only quiet chamber of his wedding day.

So, you open your jaw up and you work to make him _wet_.

You take him all in, till your vision blurs –by how close your face his, how buried in his groin.

He inhales and his stomach hiccups, and you can not _not_ look up.

That’s the mistake.

_(He always makes you look.)_

And you can’t stop looking, immobile, breathing hard from your nose, blinking and blinking to clear that blurred face, those eyes that—

Your hair is pulled and you fight back instinctively, surprised.

Then you notice his hand, tugging gradually toward the side, tilting your head.

You don’t divert your gaze, and you let him lead, incline your face, let it rest against his tight and—

Now you can see clearly.

_Him._

_His eyes._

_They are so full._

They look at you and they are so fucking full and big and lost and they don’t tell you fucking _anything_.

Then his fingers crawl down and settle on your nape.

And your lips are so stretched around his cock, spit is drooling down your chin and the only thing.

 _the only thing_ he does with all _this_ … is massaging your nape.

_(Softly.)_

(Watching.)

(Just _watching you like—)_

You growl.

He shivers.

You keep your eyes inside his and you start to bob your mouth up and down, furiously, taking him down your throat as much as you can, squeezing his balls, and taking and taking and taking.

And his mouth his wide, open, forever silent, but his eyes stay on yours, brimming with god knows **_what_**.

And you go harder and harder _and harder_ because he is like that, because his gaze doesn’t change, because he is still in control, he still hasn’t lost it and you don’t know.

You don’t know you don’tknowyo _udon’t knowyou **don’t—**_

**_You don’t know what he is thinking._ **

_(And you fucking_ _hate it_.)

Then he takes your hand.

Blindly, reaching, his free hand grips yours, desperately trying to slot your fingers together.

**And everything clicks.**

Your fingers twine, and hold; and you squeeze harder, to crush them, to feel.

He does too.

And the static vanishes and you can feel _it_.

You both find the rhythm, the song: and when it starts, it keeps going –his hips following your pattern, your tongue, your wrist, a perfect circular riff— until he pulls your hand, still joined, silently telling you that…

But he doesn’t have to: now you know.

You know what’s inside his head right now _and you give it to him._

You let his cock almost out of your mouth, just the tip inside your lips.

Your hand strangles his.

And he comes inside you.

~

Just then you realize.

_(The taste.)_

Your mouth is flooded and your throat sizes up.

(You didn’t think—)

_You are not like that_

_You don’t—_

_It’s not—_

His cock slips out and something drips along your jaw.

_You don’t like it_

_It’s disgusting_

_It’s the first time and_

You want to gag, to spit, to—

_You would fucking never—_

_It’s just Lars_

_No one else_

You look around to find— because you don’t—

_You would never do that_

_It’s only because Lars_

_Only Lars doesn’t make you—_

**You won’t fucking swallow.**

“Hey.”

Your head whips up and suddenly you know how you look.

(wet eyes, raw red mouth and cheeks swollen wide, _cheeks full of—)_

“Here.”

His hand is open, white, under your lower lip.

His pocket handkerchief.

_(White. For the wedding.)_

_(“Look at this shit, uh?, makes me look fancy, right?”)_

Shame chokes you and cum trickles quietly out of your lips.

After, he briefly swipes your face, looking tired and at peace.

You let him do it, you watch him crumple the handkerchief and throw it lazily to the side.

Sighing, he bends forward, takes your chin and kiss you —softly but insisting, his tongue open your lips and _oh_ : he is licking methodically the inside of your mouth, not leaving a single spot untouched, cleansing.

And you feel yourself surging towards him, the urge to crowd him, so you lift your hand, to grab his hair, to have more— and you knock him in the jaw, lightly.

You blink and discover that your hands are still joined together, while Lars chuckles quietly in the kiss.

You bite his lip, he snorts louder, the fucker.

_(You are now smiling, too.)_

You disentangle your fingers and cup his face, ready to show him.

With your thumb you open his jaw and keep it so: you start lapping his palate, fast, then sucking his tongue; hearing him shuddering, breathing in your mouth, eyes closed, you stop only to collect with your fingers the drops of saliva that threaten to trickle down his neck, just for ask of him to suck them clean.

Until he whines –feebly, overstimulated— and draws back: eyes glassy, head lolled to a side, face red and nicely fucked up.

His digits dig into your shoulders, weakly dragging you nearer, to rest his forehead here.

“That was fucking _hot_.”

He wheezes a bit and you tilt your head against his, panting in his hear.

He whines again, his nose in your shirt, eyes squeezed shut.

“God, you gonna give me five more minutes, tho, if you want me to reciprocate.”

You take a deep breath and…

“No need.”

Lars noses your neck, tired.

“You sure?”

You hum and pet his hair absentmindedly.

It’s a strange sensation, what you are living: you are hard, can feel the fabric pulling, but… you feel satisfied? peaceful maybe?

His lips press on your neck, a long, dry kiss.

“Thank you. Gonna take a fifteen minutes nap, then. Will you wake me?”

You nod and he gets his head up, groaning.

You rise up, your knees creaking and bitching, and you take his hands.

Lars blinks and let you do it, let you manhandle him, till you are sitting sideways on the couch: knees bended, legs open enough to let him scoot between them, back against your chest, head under your chin, legs stretched to occupy the rest of the sofa.

He sighs and sags against you, then he closes his eyes, blindly takes one of your arms, puts it across his chest and then the other bended enough that your hand is on his cheek, promoted to headrest.

You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything.

“Fifteen minutes, a’ right?” he mumbles, then he claps his hand twice and the light in the room goes off.

You start fucking laughing, the rumble in your chest apparently disturbing the pretty prince sleeping on it because he tries to swat the arm within his reach, but he fails, pouting and telling you silently to shut the fuck up.

You keep chuckling till you fucking want, because _of course_ Lars has put such a ridiculous technology in the new house, even in the fucking studio he never fucking uses.

_What a lazy ass._

You try not to think of your crotch, pleasantly and at the same time uncomfortably, squeezed by said ass.

Because blinking in the dark is absolutely fucking pointless, you close your eyes.

_(Just for a bit.)_

~

“Lars, er du derinde?”

You wake up to knocking, an elbow in your spleen and Danish.

“ _Shit._ Ugh.”

You are disoriented, trying to find out where the fuck you are, in the darkness.

You instinctively know the hair in your mouth, the pointy bones digging painfuly in your flesh, it’s the rest that takes a second to set in.

_(Lars’ wedding party.)_

More knocking.

“Oh for helvede, I am coming, I’m coming.”

He is somewhat standing, somewhat putting his pants on and at the same time stumbling towards the door.

“Lars? Lars, er du—”

“FOR HELVEDE, JEG ER PÅ VEJ!”

You sit up and scratch your eyes.

Lars opens the door an inch and puts his head out –the only stripe of light that gets in has his shadow in it.

_Fuck, you fell asleep._

Hushed Danish voices and faint background music enter the room.

_What time is it anyway? Shit, how long have you two been gone, they are searching for—_

“James og jeg faldt i søvn, mens vi chattede, you know, efter bachelorfesten i går aftes…”

You hear your name and you look at the door, now more than ajar, and you see Torben’s face against a halo of light.

You squeeze your eyes and grunt a croaked “hey”.

Your face is apparently dumb enough to be convincing and his son affectionate enough that Torben doesn’t even blink, just nods and goes back to the mother tongue.

By the time you finish looking for a clock in the room, the door closes and Lars turns on the light.

“ _Fuck._ ”

You rub your eyes, blinded.

“Yeah, no time for whining, we gotta move, _now_.”

You give him the finger with one hand, the other committed to shielding your gaze from the neon.

“I told you to wake me up after fifteen minutes, not _forty_.”

He is in a pissy and fussy mood, attempting and failing to un-wrinkle his suit, to tame his hair, be presentable.

You just think _: I drooled on his cock, fucked his face with my tongue till it was **wet** just half an hour ago, and his father, his own father, looked at him –right in the eyes— and saw **nothing**._

You smile at the irony and get more comfortable on the couch, while he keeps puttering and mumbling.

Actually, this is a fucking great couch. You smooth the fabric once, twice.

Velvet, dark purple, and so fucking long.

_How long is it, 70 inches, 80 maybe?_

You try and lie on it, fully stretched and _damn_ : you fit and then _some_.

You could definitely sleep in this (well, technically, you did) and it’s so cool.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He is tying his shoes –again— and judging you.

“We gotta go, man, c’mon. Hurry the fuck up.”

You shrug and smile smugly.

“You go first, I’ll stay here a bit longer. Better if we leave separately, or some shit, right?”

You start to hum the James Bond theme, but by the face he is making he is actually considering the idea.

“No, better not: my father saw us together, we would look more guilty if we actually did the split thing.”

He gets up and comes in front of the couch, waiting for you.

_Shared walk of shame it is, then._

You lift yourself up at the same time when he notices something on the floor.

“Oh fuck, det er det, jeg næsten glemte!”

“Wha…?”

He scrambles on his knees and picks up a white—

_The handkerchief._

He is giggling hysterically, putting a hand on his chest, eyes wide.

**_His wedding handkerchief with which he—_ **

His staggers towards the door waiving the crumpled thing before putting it in his breast pocket.

“Would you imagine? Jesus, I knew I was forgetting—"

You stop him.

Your fingers, on his heart, slips in the jacket and take it out.

“I got this.”

Your hand brushes his fingertips and, for a moment, you both hold on.

_(You don’t kiss him.)_

_(You say—)_

“I like your couch.”

And he blinks.

He blinks and blinks and blinks, and he looks at it, now sad.

“Yeah”, he draws back a step, “I was thinking of you.”

And he opens the door.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. ”James og jeg faldt i søvn, mens vi chattede, you know, efter bachelorfesten i går aftes… “ = James and I fell asleep while chatting, you know, after the bachelor party last night >>> this is the explanation that Lars gives his father.  
> 2\. That being said... that was A LOT. It was my first smut ever, so yeah, let's say that I hope it get easier to write because I have other 3 smuts in front of me (one for chapter). Cross your fingers for me!  
> 3\. This is James' head, he said some nasty thing about Lars but... he was irritated and while some of those thing he really believes true, it doesn't change that he likes Lars, a fucking lot. It's just-- they have a fucking complicated relationship and it would took me 4000 more fics to begin to unravel it all. So, let's say it's my take on that period, on that simmering anger.


End file.
